


Say Yule Be Mine

by lutes_and_dandelions



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Baking, Ciri Meddles but only a little bit, Dancing, Emhyr has Dogs, First Kiss, Fluff, Fun, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Musical Emhyr, Obvious Emhyr, Soft Emhyr, Yule, courting, happy holiday fun, holiday fic, like a lot of it, oblivious Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28227582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lutes_and_dandelions/pseuds/lutes_and_dandelions
Summary: Geralt shouldn’t have accepted the invitation but the idea was so tantalising he had to say yes. Two weeks at Castell Haul with Ciri and Emhyr, celebrating the first night of Yule half way through his stay. Of course he absolutely wanted to spend time with his daughter, that wasn’t the issue that made him consider staying his hand.The issue was Emhyr.Not because they didn’t get on, in fact they got on far better than anyone could have predicted. He’d even go so far as to say they were friends. That was fine, of course, he would even go so far as to say it was wonderful. What wasn’t wonderful was the fact that Geralt also found himself to be helplessly in love with Emhyr too. Objectively, he knew he shouldn’t love Emhyr with such intensity and passion but he couldn’t seem to help it. Emhyr was handsome and clever and when he looked at Geralt, it made Geralt feel like the most important person in the world.Which was anissue. It really couldn’t be described as anything else.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 20
Kudos: 93





	Say Yule Be Mine

Geralt shouldn’t have accepted the invitation but the idea was so tantalising he had to say yes. Two weeks at Castell Haul with Ciri and Emhyr, celebrating the first night of Yule half way through his stay. Of course he absolutely wanted to spend time with his daughter, that wasn’t the issue that made him consider staying his hand. 

The issue was Emhyr. 

Not because they didn’t get on, in fact they got on far better than anyone could have predicted. He’d even go so far as to say they were friends. That was fine, of course, in fact it was wonderful. What wasn’t wonderful was the fact that Geralt also found himself to be rather helplessly in love with Emhyr too. Objectively, he knew he shouldn’t love Emhyr with such intensity and passion but he couldn’t seem to help it. Emhyr was handsome and clever and when he looked at Geralt, it made Geralt feel like the most important person in the world. 

Which was an _issue_. It really couldn’t be described as anything else. After all, Emhyr was the Emperor of the North and South, the most powerful man in the world, Geralt had no business being in love with him. Despite all of this, when the time came Geralt still found himself embarking on the long journey from Corvo Bianco to the Nilgaardian coast. BB had been beside himself when Geralt had mentioned his destination. Apparently even the Dutchess hadn’t been invited to Castell Haul, something that gave Geralt more vindictive satisfaction then it probably should have.

-oOo-

Castell Haul wasn’t a particularly large castle, but as he approached it’s portcullis, he decided that it was stunning. Built from granite on an outcrop of basalt rock, it was ancient, and perched above a beautiful dune system that stretched along the coast line as far as the eye could see. The castle was visible for miles around and was possibly one of the most easily defendable places on the continent.

The guards let him in without question and a stable hand appeared in the inner courtyard to take Roach from him. Mererid, looking as pleased to see him as a cuckholded husband walking in on their wife and lover, was waiting for him in front of the large oak doors. 

“Someone will take your saddlebags to your room and clothes have been provided for the duration of your stay. A bath is waiting for you. His Majesty has stated that you are not required to shave.” 

What Mererid thought of that was very clear in his tone. Geralt fought a laugh and mostly managed it, covering the chuckle that did burst free with a cough. Geralt supposed he’d kicked up such a fuss the last few times they’d forced him to shave, Emhyr had gotten sick of his complaints. He followed Mererid inside and through the wood panelled halls, up a few flights of stairs, and was eventually left outside a door with _The Flower Room_ carved into it in delicate script. 

The room was large, with three sets of windows overlooking the beach and the Great Sea, carpeted floors and a huge hearth under which a fire crackled. The room lived up to its name, the walls a mural of hundreds of flowers. Geralt was sure he could stare at them for hours and continuously name different species. They weren’t the only flowers in the room either, the curtains on the four poster bed and the windows were black but patterned with flowers embroidered in golden thread. Flowers were also carved into the wooden frame of the bed, the doors of the wardrobe, the lid of the chest at the foot of the bed and the dressing table. The effect was quite breathtaking. 

Geralt wanted to spend more time looking but a steaming bath was waiting for him in front of the fire, a number of soaps and oils sitting in a little open box by its side, along with a shaving kit. Leaving his dirty armour in a pile next to the door, Geralt slipped into the water, letting his body relax back against the side of the tub.

-oOo-

“You shaved,” Emhyr said immediately upon seeing Geralt.

He’d found Emhyr in a first floor sitting room. The windows overlooked the dunes, most of the walls were lined with filled bookcases, the dark wooden floors were polished to a shine. A large couch and two armchairs sat in front of a huge, crackling fire. On the couch sat Emhyr, his greyhounds using his lap as a pillow. Geralt’s eyes stuck momentarily on Emhyr. He looked so loose, so relaxed. His usual robes of state were gone, replaced with a loose shirt and jumper, paired with warm looking leggings and slippers. Whereas normally Emhyr’s hair would be brush back, away from his face, now it framed his face in lose curls that Geralt desperately wanted to touch.

Waking and immediately spotting him, Aerona and Efa sprang from their father’s lap and bound towards him. The fact that they remembered him at all was lovely. He spent a moment fussing over them, stroking Aerona’s sleek black coat and Efa’s beautiful tan, taking a moment to reacquaint himself with their favourite itchy spots. 

“Yes, well, it was getting a little out of hand,” Geralt said from his place kneeling on the floor, “and when in Nilfgaard and all that.” 

That wasn’t the only reason. He had always thought Emhyr preferred him clean shaven but Geralt was sure he wasn’t imagining the flicker of disappointment that briefly lit Emhyr’s eyes at his reply. However Emhyr had no reason to _be_ disappointed that he’d shaved, so wrote it off as him imagining things. 

“Is Ciri here?” Geralt asked, standing and making for an armchair, the hounds following him. 

“She’ll arrive on the solstice. An issue of moderate importance arose so I thought it would be a good learning opportunity for her.”

Geralt’s stomach did a funny flip as he sat down, the knowledge that he was to spend an entire week in the castle with only Emhyr for company sinking in. That was assuming Emhyr wanted his company, of course, he might not, which was fine, disappointing to consider but fine. 

He’d barely settled in his seat when Efa jumped into his lap, balancing precariously before flopping down, her huge chest supported by his as she licked his chin. Aerona watched on from the floor, expressive eyes looking intensely jealous. 

“I can call her away if you would like,” Emhyr offered.

“No, it’s alright,” Geralt said, wrapping an arm around her and using his other to stroke under her chin. 

“Aerona, here.” She trotted over without fuss and jumped back onto the couch when Emhyr patted the seat next to him, laying across his lap with a dramatic sigh. One of Emhyr’s large hands spread over the side of Aerona’s chest, thick fingers scratching her soft fur. The rings that usually adorned them nowhere to be found. Geralt worked very hard not to stare at that hand, forcing himself only to view it in his peripheral vision. 

It was going to be a long week.

-oOo-

The next day Geralt walked into the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks. Stood in front of the sink, up to his elbows in hot, soapy water, scrubbing a bowl, was Emhyr. For good measure, Geralt backed out of the doorway, pinched himself, and entered the room again, only to find Emhyr still stood doing the dishes.

“Who are you and what have you done with Emhyr?” He exclaimed, genuinely unsure as to whether he should be concerned or amused. 

Emhyr looked at him over his shoulder before placing the pan on the drying rack next to a few other utensils that had already been washed. Stepping away from the sink he grabbed a tea towel and dried off his arms. 

“Tea?” He asked as if he, the Emperor of the North and South regularly asked Geralt if he’d like Emhyr to make him a beverage. When Geralt didn’t answer right away, Emhyr raised an eyebrow at him and said, “It’s a simple question, Geralt.”

“You’ve never asked me it before.”

“Yes well you’ve never been to Castell Haul before.”

“And that makes such a difference,” he snorted, letting his gaze, just for a moment, slip down to appreciate the strength in Emhyr’s bare forearms. 

“It makes all the difference in the world.”

Curious, Geralt said yes to the tea and took a seat at the scrubbed oak table in the middle of the room. Emhyr poured water into a kettle from a large urn sitting in the corner of the room, placed it on top of the Aga, and then joined him. 

“I’m the Emperor, and I’m always the Emperor, but while I’m here in this castle, I can thin the line between the Emperor everyone sees and the man I truly am underneath.”

“And that means you can do the dishes?” He asked, considering what Emhyr had said. I made sense, the amount of scrutiny Emhyr was constantly under must have been unbearable at times. People enjoyed likening him to a lizard but as someone who was constantly likened to a monster, Geralt understood just how blind to the truth the general population could be because they refused to understand the reasoning behind another’s actions. 

“It’s a surprisingly enjoyable task when you only get to do it for two weeks every winter.”

Understanding the moment had likely passed but wanting Emhyr to hear it anyway, Geralt said, “I’ve always seen you as a man.”

“I know.” The barest hint of a smile curved Emhyr’s lips, making Geralt’s traitor heart skip a beat.

-oOo-

“Morning!”

The curtains were thrown open with the shriek of metal on metal and the cold morning light pressed harshly against his closed eyes. Geralt groaned and turned his head away. 

“Fuck off,” he snapped, raising a hand to cover his eyes. 

“Now really,” playfully chastised an all too familiar voice. “That’s no way to address the Emperor of the North and South.” 

Geralt shot out of bed on instinct, only realising he was completely naked a moment after he stood up. Refusing to give into the urge to cover himself, he stared at Emhyr’s smirking face. “I thought we’d go for a ride,” he said, “I know your Roach will be tired but there’s a new broken filly I’d like you to take, she’s rather nervous and I think she’d benefit from such a confident rider.”

Emhyr looked him up and down, smirk widening and a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Beauty.”

“Excuse me?” Geralt’s heart started pounding in his chest, surely Emhyr couldn’t mean Geralt. He was many things and a beauty wasn’t one of them. 

“The filly is called Beauty.”

“Oh right, of course.”

“Don’t take too long,” Emhyr cautioned before leaving the room. 

Geralt was left standing by his bed, listening to Emhyr and Mererid laugh as they walked away from his bedroom. 

“Fuck.”

-oOo-

They rode west for over an hour under an overcast sky, exercising the horses and working them up to a controlled canter. It was quite something, to be able to look to his left and see the wide, grey expanse of the Great Sea and look to his right and see Emhyr. He looked breathtaking, dark hair whipping in the wind, eyes bright, the slight uptick of the corners of his mouth and the deepening of his crows feet showing just how much he was enjoying himself.

Beauty was indeed a beauty. Standing well over seventeen hands with a broad chest, strong legs and a coat as black as night, she looked every part the Nilfgaardian Charger. That was where the comparison ended though, to say she was nervous would be an understatement. Although riding next to Emhyr’s aptly named Victory, an equally large mare but with a beautiful chestnut coat, did lend her some confidence. Geralt could see her looking to the older horse, taking cues from her, and when she did spook at something, throwing her head and careening sideways and away from whatever had caused the fright, Geralt made sure not to react, to just steer her back in the right direction. When she _didn’t_ react to things, that’s when he made a fuss, cooing at her and patting her neck. 

Emhyr eventually indicated that they should stop and Geralt easily reined her in, her mouth incredibly sensitive to the slightest move of his hand. 

“What do you think of her?” Emhyr asked as he dismounted, ground tying Victory to the toe of the dune and removing her saddle bags. 

“She’s lovely,” Geralt answered, following suit, patting Beauty’s neck before ground tying her next to the chestnut mare and loosening her girth. 

The tide was in, leaving them with only a few meters of truly dry sand before the dark line of the upper surf zone started. Emhyr chose a seemingly random spot and sat himself down, with nothing else to do, Geralt copied him. 

Winter in Nilfgaard was comparable to early autumn in Kaedwen. It was not cold but there was a brisk chill in the air that had forced them into light winter cloaks and gloves. As they sat side by side on the sand, Geralt was glad they’d donned such clothes, nothing could steal warmth from the body like inactivity. 

Geralt watched the waves, getting lost in the mesmeric repetitiveness of them. The way they rose up as they reached the shallows, the top moving faster than the bottom and causing the water to barrel over itself before it broke, surging up the shore as a mass of white foam before retreating just as quickly as it came. An unruly, uncontrollable tempest that would give and take with equal measure, in Geralt the sea inspired many things, awe, wonder, beauty, an extremeness that he wasn’t a sailor. 

In his peripheral, Geralt could see Emhyr rummaging around in one of the saddlebags. The twitch of his medallion made Geralt turn to properly watch as he removed two water pouches, handing one over to Geralt. Opening it revealed not water, but hot mulled cider, the perfect temperature for drinking. It was a clever idea, charming the pouches to keep the drink warm. After toasting Emhyr, Geralt took a hearty drink, enjoying the way the cider warmed him from the inside, sitting happily in his belly. 

With a deep sigh, Geralt sealed the pouch back up and leaned back on his elbows, taking a moment to look around the sparse landscapes of the beach and the dunes behind it. After a moment of contemplation he asked, “Do you not worry about assassination when you’re out alone like this?”

Emhyr turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow, “I’m not alone, I’m with you.”

“You’re sure I would intervene?” He raised both of his eyebrows in return.. 

“As sure as I am that the sun will rise in the morning.”

“I can’t decide whether that’s a compliment or a manipulation.” But it certainly felt like a compliment and his body was reacting like it was a compliment, the rush of heat in his cheeks informing Geralt that he was blushing. 

“What is a compliment, if not a form of manipulation?” Emhyr winked. It was said playfully but the words made Geralt’s heart ache for him, having a small understanding of all of the ways people had tried to manipulate Emhyr over the years and the lengths he’d had to go to, the walls he’d had to erect to stop people trying in the first place. 

“Suppose it depends on who does the complimenting,” Geralt shrugged. 

“I suppose it does,” Emhyr nodded. “To give a more expansive answer to your question, this land and the castle that sits on it are my ancestral seat. The var Emreis lived here for generations before we took power. I was born here, as was my father and my grandfather and his father. I hope if Cirilla ever chooses to bring life into this world she will do so here too. Many years ago the land was enchanted, an enchantment that continues to grow in strength with every var Emreis born since it’s casting. No one can step onto this land if they hold ill intent towards me or any of my blood.”

“Useful.” The notion that Emhyr had invited him on the ride because he wanted his company rather than needing Geralt for protection was not lost on him and it made his heart pound and his palms sweat. To distract himself, Geralt pushed himself back up into a seated position and had another swig of cider. 

“Incredibly.” Emhyr pulled a long box from the saddle bag and placed it between them, “Now, I have been reliably informed that banana roulade is a particular favourite of yours.”

“It is,” Geralt nodded, reaching for the box. Inside was a perfectly rolled banana roulade filled with vanilla whipped cream. The smell made Geralt’s mouth water. It had already been cut into thick slices so he reached in and took a slice without hesitation, taking a large bite. The flavour exploded on his tongue, the texture of the sponge pairing perfectly with the cream, banana and vanilla combining in his mouth in a perfect partnership. 

“That’s amazing,” he hummed, passing the box over to Emhyr who delicately took his own slice. Geralt had to finish his piece before he could speak again. “That was delicious. You should give the baker some kind of commendation.”

For some unknown reason Emhyr found Geralt’s declaration incredibly funny, almost choking on his roulade as he laughed, head thrown back, eyes closed in mirth. It was a deep sound that came from Emhyr’s belly. There were bards all based all around Continent, some of whom Geralt knew, that were famed to have the most beautiful voices, but none of that could compare to the beauty of Emhyr’s laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Geralt asked. 

“Nothing in particular,” Emhyr snorted, beginning to collect himself as he held the box back out to Geralt and despite knowing it was a distraction, Geralt just had to have another slice.

-oOo-

Geralt woke feeling incredibly disoriented, unsure if he was imagining the melodious pianoforte tune he could hear being played somewhere in the castle. As he blinked into the darkness though he realised that he wasn’t imagining it and someone was indeed playing. Curiosity getting the better of him, Geralt climbed out of bed, pulled on the thick, quilted dressing gown they’d provided him and shoved his feet into his warm, fur lined slippers before slipping out of his bedroom. He followed the thoughtful, lilting music, letting his ears direct his feet.

Eventually Geralt found himself in a corridor on a ground floor, stood outside of the room he was quite sure was the ballroom. The door was closed but the music was certainly emanating from under it. Breathing in, he could scent Emhyr in the air, along with the scents of sweat and something he was sure was fear, but what Emhyr had to be scared of in his ancestral home, Geralt did not know. As well as that, he hadn’t even been aware Emhyr knew how to play any instrument, never mind a pianoforte. Thankfully the door did not squeak when Geralt carefully opened it, just far enough to slip the upper half of his body through. 

However, it was Emhyr, facing away from the door and seated at the keys of a grand pianoforte, it’s black painted wood gleaming in the light of the few scones that lit the corner of the room. His back was ramrod straight and he was swaying as his fingers danced across the keys, lost within the beautiful music he was creating. There was no music, he was playing from memory.

Geralt felt like an intruder. He had seen sides of Emhyr that no other was privy to, but that was all because Emhyr had chosen to show Geralt those parts of himself. Emhyr hadn’t chosen to show him the part of himself that played the pianoforte so passionately, so beautifully that it took Geralt’s breath away, so it felt inherently _wrong_ to witness it. Stomach swirling sickeningly, Geralt retreated, closing the door just as quietly as he had opened it. 

He didn’t want to listen but there was no way of blocking it out, even as Geralt climbed back into his own bed. Even after drawing the curtains of the four poster he could still hear it. Emhyr played for a long time, and Geralt listened to every note, heart aching and unable to sleep, oddly disquieted by what he’d seen.

-oOo-

They were a little drunk. After a wonderful dinner of poached salmon and an assortment of vegetables, Emhyr had suggested a few games of Gwent in the sitting room. It shortly turned into a few games of Gwent with a few bottles of wine and then because apparently that wasn’t good enough, it became Gwent with wine and delivering a limerick as part of your turn.

“There once was a man from Kaedwen,” Geralt slurred as he placed down a ballista card, “who always went to bed by ten, except for one night, when he got in a fight, so he vowed never to drink again.”

“That was poor,” Emhyr huffed, running his hand over Efa’s head. The dogs were sitting on either side of him, using his lap as a pillow. “Not rude at all.”

“Just because I can’t pull blindingly funny and filthy rhymes out of my arse the way you can,” he complained, pulling a face. 

“You’re right, I can!” he exclaimed, moving onto Aerona.

“I know you can, so get on with it,” Geralt waved a hand at the cards in front of them and rolled his eyes. 

“There once was a lass called Sally,” Emhyr smoothly intoned, with all the gravitas of the Emperor he was, never looking away from Geralt even as he laid down his cards, “who always fancied a bit of a dally, she sat in the lap of a well endowed chap and cried sir, you’re right up my alley.”

In the process of delivering his beautifully vulgar limerick, Emhyr had also won the game. Geralt fell back laughing, cursing himself for loving how slyly intelligent Emhyr was.

-oOo-

The scent of bananas drew Geralt down to the same kitchen he’d watched Emhyr wash the dishes, in the hope of, if not finding a banana roulade, at least finding the baker to thank them for the first one. Except instead of an ordinary baker, Geralt found Emhyr, an apron on, with a bowl and wooden spoon in hand, a smear of flour over his cheek.

“You made the roulade?” Geralt asked, somewhat flabbergasted, stopping in the door. Aerona and Efa, who were standing either side of Emhyr, didn't take their eyes off the bowl. 

Emhyr looked up, the corners of his mouth turning up. “I was so hoping you’d find out.”

“No wonder you laughed so hard.” Geralt stepped further into the room, gravitating towards Emhyr. 

“It was an unexpected bit of humour but one I enjoyed immensely.”

“It was a really delicious roulade,” He murmured, coming to a stop just in front of Emhyr, eyes catching on the flour. “You have-” 

Heart pounding, Geralt raised a hand and gently rubbed his thumb over Emhyr’s cheek, never breaking Emhyr’s gaze as he brushed away the flour. Emhyr’s skin was soft and warm under Geralt’s touch. Wonderfully, heartbreakingly, Emhyr blushed, a blotchy pink staining his cheeks. How long had it been since someone had touched Emhyr to make him react so strongly to such a simple gesture. 

“Thank you,” Emhyr said.

Geralt dropped his hand and they stood there for a moment, looking at each other. He wondered idly what Emhyr was thinking about behind those light brown eyes. A new sweet scent tickled Geralt’s nose, he was unsure of the source, not recognising, although he assumed it must have been the cake mixture. 

Aerona whined and Emhyr broke eye contact to look down at her. “Yes, you’re quite right, but I’m still not giving you any batter,” he said, as if Aerona had used actual words.

The strange tension that had overcome them dissipated and Geralt took a step back, swallowing. He chastised himself as he leaned back against the bench and watched Emhyr decant the mixture into a waiting baking tin. How could he be so foolish as to do something as blatant as _stare into his eyes_. He didn’t need to wonder what Emhyr was thinking because Emhyr was likely wondering what the fuck he was doing. Thankfully Emhyr didn’t call him on it and Geralt promised to himself to work harder to be less obvious, not wanting to ruin the quiet companionship they had been sharing since he’d arrive at Castell Haul.

-oOo-

Geralt blinked at Emhyr, but no matter how intently he peered at Emhyr’s face, there was nothing to see except complete sincerity.

They were standing in the middle of the ballroom. It was a beautiful room, rectangular and wood panelled like the rest of the castle, with a marble floor. A large set of Toussaint doors sat at one end, opening up onto the castle courtyard, decorated with a large, stained glass, Great Sun, that was casting golden light around the room. From the center of the high ceiling hung a huge, ornate chandelier, made up of hundreds of dangling crystals. The pianoforte, not in use, was covered to protect it from dust. A large fireplace and hearth sat in the middle of one of the long walls, lit since they were using the room, and Efa and Aerona lay in front of it on another large bed.

“You want to teach me how to waltz?” He asked, just be sure. Emhyr’s raised eyebrow was all the answer Geralt needed. “Why?”

“I wish to waltz with you, why ever else would I teach you,” Emhyr tutted, the scorn he felt for stating something _apparently_ obvious clear on his tone. Not one to be put off, it made Geralt smile. 

“Alright.”

The waltz was a romantic dance in the north, only married couples were permitted to join the floor when an orchestra took up the relatively slow, lilting rhythm. It was different in the south of course, with its far more liberal attitude anyone was allowed to waltz with whomever they liked. Despite knowing there wasn’t anything romantic about Emhyr’s request though, that didn’t stop the joyous thrill that coursed through him as Emhyr stood by his side, guiding him through the steps while he counted out the three beats. 

They were simple in comparison to the years of fencing footwork that had been drilled into Geralt but there was something about having Emhyr as his tutor that was making Geralt nervous. He’d stop concentrating for a second, his focus slipping to the man next to him and Geralt would step wrong. Everytime Emhyr would raise an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth ticking up to let Geralt know he wasn’t really annoyed. 

Then Emhyr took Geralt in hold, and everything became a little surreal. A broad hand rested against Geralt’s back, while Geralt rested his upon Emhyr’s shoulder. Their other hands were clasped together just below shoulder height, their elbows bent. Pressing their bellies together, Emhyr made Geralt lean back slightly, arching his back and directing him look away from Emhyr, off to the side. It wasn’t a natural position, and he could imagine that if they practised all day, Geralt might feel it in some of his muscles. 

“Now, we’re going to go through the steps slowly,” Emhyr rumbled, his deep voice somehow an even lower timbre than usual, sending a shiver down Geralt’s spine. “Remember, I will always start by moving my right foot forward, which means…?”

“I move my left foot back,” Geralt answered, hating how breathy he sounded. Anyone would think he was an enamoured teenager rather than a grizzled Witcher. 

“Very good,” Emhyr nodded. 

The easy praise made Geralt’s knees feel weak, something in his stomach making it flutter as warmth suffused his chest. Such a casual comment yet it left Geralt reeling. So few people said such things to him that it always took him by surprise when anyone bothered to. Without fail words of kindness always made him feel good and wanted and worthy, the effect immediate and extraordinary.

“I’ll give you three in,” Emhyr informed Geralt, pulling him a little closer, “and then we move on one.” 

The count was slow as promised and on one, Geralt let Emhyr guide him around the room. Years of mastering his body was the only reason Geralt managed to move with any kind of elegance or grace, and he still left a lot to be desired. Oddly, the sweet scent he’d first come across in the kitchen lightly tickled his nose, but Geralt paid it no mind, finding himself to be genuinely enjoying the dance.

-oOo-

Geralt woke with a start, unsure as to what had pulled him from slumber. He stared up at the cloth canopy above him, listening, waiting.

A pained cry sounded from down the hall, the noise carrying under the gap in the door. He bolted out of bed and was down the hallway in a flash, glad he’d slept in a long nightshirt, and through the door he was sure the noise had come from. Emhyr’s words of magic protection rang in his ears but Geralt still expected to find assassins or bandits or some kind of creature. Except there were none of those things, instead there was only Emhyr, face drawn, tangled in his sheets and thrashing into his mattress, the scent of stress and sweat heavy in the air. It was the same scent he’d come across outside of the ballroom and understanding of why Emhyr had been playing the piano slotted into place in his mind. There was a monster in the room, except it was inside of Emhyr’s head, somewhere no spell on the land could protect. 

“Emhyr,” Geralt said, approaching the bed. The hounds watched him from their equally large bed in the corner. Emhyr didn’t wake, continuing to thrash, another pained moan falling from his lips. “Emhyr!” Still nothing. Crouching down beside the bed, Geralt placed a hand on Emhyr’s shoulder, shaking him. 

Emhyr bolted upright, arms flailing, it was only his enhanced reflexes that stopped Geralt taking a hammerfist to the nose. Panting, Emhyr looked around, eyes eventually settling on Geralt, brows drawn together in a deep frown. 

“Thank you for waking me,” he said, voice far weaker than Geralt had ever heard it. It wasn’t right, Emhyr wasn’t supposed to sound like that. 

“You’re welcome.”

Efa padded over and jumped past Geralt, her long body making the air move, unsettling his hair. She sniffed at Emhyr, checking him over before enthusiastically licking his lips. Aerona moved to sit next to Geralt, resting her head upon the mattress as she stared up at Emhyr with wide eyes. 

“Yes, thank you Efa,” Emhyr drawled, pushing her away, but Geralt could tell he was glad for the comfort, his posture softening slightly. It was such a vulnerable and human moment, getting to see it warmed Geralt’s heart and made his stomach twist. 

“Shall we go down the kitchen and have tea?” Geralt suggested. It was late but still early enough they could get up and get back to bed with more than a few hours to spare before the morning bells rang out. He didn’t want to give himself away, didn’t want to let on that he knew but if playing help to calm Emhyr then it would be foolish not to suggest it. “And then perhaps onto the ballroom.”

“You heard after my last nightmare” Emhyr stated, eyes flashing in the darkness. 

“I did,” Geralt admitted. “I was curious and went to investigate. I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to know.”

Emhyr shook his head, “So few are aware, I’ve always, purposefully, kept it secret. People always think they own me because of my duty to the Empire, my every move is monitored and reported on. The piano has always been my way to have something for myself, so I could look my ministers, senators and nobles in their smirking, smarmy faces and think _there’s something you don’t know about me_. It’s kept me sane over the years but I will admit it is liberating for you to be the one who knows. You already know so much of me, why not this too? It feels right.”

Heartaching, Geralt leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the mattress, utterly overwhelmed. “Thank you,” he mumbled, just loud enough for Emhyr to hear. Gentle fingers carded through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp as Geralt held himself together by his fingernails.

-oOo-

Emhyr was baking again. Geralt sat at the kitchen table and watched as he beat a bowl of cake batter within an inch of its life. His shirt was rolled up to his elbows and Geralt couldn’t quite take his eyes off his bare forearms, silently appreciating the way they flexed. The scent of ginger was in the air, warm and fragrant.

“The batter for this particular loaf is quite delicious, if you’d like to try some?” Emhyr said, setting the bowl down to retrieve a spoon from the sideboard. 

“You eat raw cake batter? I’m surprised you’d risk food poisoning,” Geralt frowned. 

“What can I say, I like to live dangerously,” Emhyr snorted. Geralt laughed despite himself. “And,” Emhyr continued, dipping the spoon into the batter, raising it to his own lips and licking it cleanly off, his pink tongue poking out and momentarily capturing Geralt’s attention, “trying it means I can judge the quality of the loaf before it goes in the oven and add any extra ingredients accordingly.” 

“Seems sensible.”

“It is sensible, and this is ready for the oven,” Emhyr informed him, tone brokering no argument, not that Geralt was going to argue. However, rather than transferring the batter to the waiting loaf tin, Emhyr dipped his spoon back into the mixture. Geralt thought he would once again lift it to his own lips, but instead Emhyr held the spoon in front of Geralt’s mouth, looking at him expectantly. 

On automatic, too shocked to really process what was happening, Geralt leaned forward and wrapped his lips around the spoon, eyes locked with Emhyr’s. The batter really was delicious, sweet and spicy and exactly what you wanted from a cake in winter. Emhyr pulled the spoon back, raising a questioning eyebrow at Geralt. 

For a moment Geralt’s mind floundered, still too caught up on the fact that _Emhyr had just fed him something!_ Nothing could have prepared Geralt to deal with that, if anyone had ever said to him that one day Emhyr would spoon cake batter into his mouth he’d have fallen about laughing and assumed they’d been snorting fisstech. But it had definitely happened, surprising as it was and Emhyr was still waiting for an answer. 

“That was delicious,” he finally managed to choke out. 

“Of course it was,” Emhyr teased, “I made it.”

-oOo-

“It occurred to me,” Emhyr said, leading Geralt towards the ballroom. “That you may wish to dance with someone other than myself and that person may expect you to lead. It would remiss of me not to teach you both how to lead and to follow. I plan to rectify that today ahead of Yule tomorrow.”

“I thought it was a punishable offence to try and lead the Emperor in a dance,” Geralt commented, closing the doors behind them once Efa and Aerona had trotted through.

“It is, but I’m assuming you’re _not_ going to report yourself to the Captain of my guard so what they don’t know can’t hurt you.”

“Right.” If Geralt wasn’t a Witcher he’d be worried he had a heart condition with the way his kept speeding up or skipping beats when he was around Emhyr. 

“It’s fairly simple. To lead you just have to do the opposite of what you do to follow.”

Without any warning Emhyr took hold of Geralt’s wrist, placing his hand on the correct position against Emhyr’s back and then took Geralt’s hand. When Emhyr arched his back and turned his head away, he looked far more dignified than Geralt could ever hope to be. It would be annoying if Emhyr didn’t look so stunning, ready and waiting for Geralt to lead him around the floor.

-oOo-

Ciri arrived on the morning of the solstice. It was fantastic to see her, smiling and radiant. After a brief hello she and Emhyr locked themselves away in a study to discuss the matter that had kept her in Nilfgaard but after lunch the three of them walked along the beach, the dogs trotting ahead of them. It was lovely. After the life Geralt had led, the hardship he had faced, he never took the simple pleasure of being around those he loved for granted. Just like Emhyr, Ciri was far more at ease at Castell Haul then she was in Nilfgaard City. The freeness of her laugh had returned, and Geralt liked hearing it.

When they returned to the castle the sun was about to set so they crowded into the courtyard along with the staff to watch Emhyr light the Yule Log. Geralt found it slightly strange to keep the log outside, rather than in a fireplace but he was sure he’d get used to it. As soon as the take was complete they were whisked off in different directions to be bathed and dressed ahead of the guests arriving for the evening's celebration. Only Emhyr’s closest friends and allies were invited. A formal occasion in the capital could sometimes see hundreds of people invited but for Yule, only seven invitations had been sent out. 

Geralt wasn’t expected to greet the guests and quite happily lurked off the one side with Efa and Aerona, tugging at the formal doublet he’d been stuffed into, while Emhyr and Ciri received them in the atrium. The Lady’s Rhiannon and Erin came first, they presided over lands south of Nilfgaard City but spent a lot of time in court as Rhiannon was Emhyr’s Great Aunty on his mother’s side and a great support to him. Women in their seventies, they’d been married for fifty years and had helped smuggle Emhyr safely from the capital during the uprising.

Next came Ieuen, a man Geralt had met before, he was a Professor at Nilfgaard’s university and a childhood friend of Emhyr’s. Short and blond, he was an interesting man if you enjoyed discussing the specifics of military history, which Emhyr did. 

To round the group off was Morvran, his parents, Arnall and Catrin and his teenage sister, Alys. Morvran really was the image of his father, whereas Alys was a mix of her parents, having inherited her father’s eyes and pointed chin, but her mother’s sloping nose, thin lips and black hair. Geralt did not miss the heated look that passed between Morvran and Ciri and made note to ask about it later. 

The group moved into one of the reception rooms for drinks before dinner and Geralt couldn’t avoid not talking to the guests any longer. Luckily Rhiannon was just as obsessed with horses as he and Morvran were so he purposefully moved across the room to her and with very little prompting got her talking about the latest training techniques the palace breeders had been trying on the foals. Some of them she liked, some of them she didn’t and Geralt listened intently, happy to have common ground with someone Emhyr respected so much. 

Dinner was quite a loud affair, the preceding drinks having been quite strong. Geralt had been sat between Alys and Ieuen with Morvran opposite. Alys was seemingly too wrapped up in teenage nervousness to talk to him so he listened to Ieuen discuss the finer points of a battle that had taken place three hundred years earlier while the group worked their way through the many delicious courses. Courses consisting of all the traditional Yuletide foods, succulent pork and tender turkey, tart berries that burst on the tongue, nuts that held just the right amount of crunch, and more, all served with mulled cider. Just because he could, Geralt kept sneaking Efa and Aerons titbits of meat whenever they circled around the table to him. The meal came to a close with the presentation of a Yule Log cake that Geralt knew Emhyr himself had baked the previous evening.

After that, they moved to the ballroom for music and dancing. A string septet had set up in the opposite corner of the pianoforte and a bar had been erected in another. Against the wall opposite the fireplace sat a table that was easily seat ten. Through the doors out to the courtyard the burning Yule Log was clearly visible. 

The septet began to play as soon as they stepped. As it was a night of merriment, not bound by the usual formality of Nilfgaardian court, the group went straight to the bar first. Geralt got himself a mulled wine before taking a seat at the table while the more confident dancers took to the floor. He watched Emhyr lead Ciri around the room, they weren’t waltzing, the music was in the wrong time signature for that. Whatever dance it was, it was beautiful to watch, with lots of rise and fall and long lines across the floor. 

Arnall sat down next to him and Erin across from him and they started a debate about the best gwent faction. It was getting quite heated when Ciri, who’d just been spinning around the room with Morvran, approached the table and asked for a dance. There was no world in which he would refuse her. 

“I only know how to waltz mind,” Geralt smiled as he rose from the table.

“Oh I know, so do the septet,” Ciri explained, eyes dancing with amusement as they stepped onto the floor. “They’ve been instructed to only play waltzes if you’re dancing.” 

“Huh.” That knowledge did funny things to Geralt’s insides, making a warmth spread out in his belly that he couldn’t attribute to the wine. Emhyr was dancing with Rhiannon and he looked so happy and carefree, smiling down at her, crows feet delightfully crinkling the corners of his eyes. Tearing his eyes away with some difficulty, Geralt took Ciri in hold and let her lead him around the floor. It was incredibly fun, far more enjoyable than he thought it would be especially since he had an, albeit small, audience.

As they turned around the room he caught Ciri shooting a smile over at Morvran and Geralt saw an opportunity. “So...you and the General?” 

Ciri looked back at Geralt and laughed, a wicked grin curling her lips. “We agree on far more than I thought we would, he can actually hold an interesting conversation, he’s frightfully witty and he takes instructions well.”

He pointedly ignored the connotations of the last part of her statement. Yes, he knew Ciri was an adult, strong and independent and he was incredibly proud of the woman she’d become, but she’d also always be the frightened little girl he’d taken to Kaer Morhen and raised as his own. 

“I’m glad,” he said, genuine, “it’ll be good to have someone like that by your side when you take the throne.” 

“Just like you stand by Emhyr’s side now?” Ciri questioned, raising an inquisitive eyebrow, so very like her father.

“There’s nothing like that between me and Emhyr,” Geralt frowned, wishing it was a lie. 

“Not through lack of trying on his part,” she rolled her eyes. The only reason Geralt didn’t stop moving, so shocked by Ciri’s statement, was because she continued to steer him around and his feet moved on automatic. Taking one look at his slack face, she laughed again, “For someone so clever you can be really thick sometimes.”

His mind struggled to believe her, after all why would Emhyr want something like that with him? But he also trusted her with every fibre of his being. If Ciri said that Emhyr considered him the same way she considered Morvran, then he believed her, much as the idea was absurd to him. He considered everything that had happened over the last week, everything they’d done together, all of the time they’d spent _together_ , everything Emhyr had done for him, the baking, the dancing, the Flower Room, the things he’d said to Geralt. It painted a clearer picture, he just hadn’t been able to see it until Ciri had made him take a step back, making him finally stand far enough away to see the whole of it. 

The waltz ended and Ciri released him. “Go dance with him,” she said, a suggestion that wasn’t really a suggestion, tone brokering for no argument and pushing him towards Emhyr. He had been dancing with Rhiannon but upon seeing them approach she turned to her niece, exclaiming, “Cirilla!”

“Yes, Aunty,” Ciri replied, eyes dancing, they got on very well.

“Escort me over to the bar,” she said, placing her hand in the crook of Ciri’s elbow. They all knew Rhiannon didn’t need escorting, that she’s just been moving around the floor like a woman half her age, she just enjoyed Ciri’s company. As they walked away Ciri made a comment and it must have been amusing by the way Rhiannon threw her head back and laughed. Geralt turned to Emhyr, finding him watching their backs with a soft expression on his face. It must have been lovely for him to see them together. 

As the septet began to play another waltz, Emhyr tore his eyes away and turned to Geralt, holding out a hand to hand, “Shall we?” 

Geralt had faced down monsters and kings alike but he’d never felt so nervous as when he stepped into Emhyr’s hold. If Geralt didn’t have such perfect control over his breathing, the touch would have had his chest heaving. As it was his heart was once again hammering against his ribcage and his palms had begun to sweat. Annoyingly, Emhyr appeared totally calm and collected, and with great poise he began to lead Geralt around the room. Geralt desperately wanted to turn his head and look into Emhyr’s eyes, but the hold didn’t allow himself, instead he watched Emhyr in the peripheral vision. 

Ciri’s words rang in his mind.

Never able to keep his foot out of his mouth for very long, Geralt murmured, “Something came to my attention while I was dancing with Ciri.”

“Go on.” 

“You’ve been trying to court me.” The words felt so foreign in his mouth. 

He expected Emhyr to deny it, to immediately release Geralt and chastise him for being so foolish. That didn’t happen. Instead Emhyr raised one regal eyebrow and said, “I’ll have to thank Cirilla for nudging you along. I was beginning to wonder if you’d realise at all.” 

“In what realm would I ever consider it reasonable for you to want me?” Geralt snorted.

“You’re used to moving amongst the highest echelons of polite society,” Emhyr reasoned. “Apart from that, I was under the impression Witcher’s could smell the chemicals released when a person is attracted to another. There have been plenty of times over the last week where I thought I surely must have been giving myself away. After yesterday I assumed you were choosing to ignore it.”

Emhyr looked and sounded unbothered by his statement that he thought Geralt was willfully rejecting him but his heartbeat had picked up it’s pace a little and stress tickled Geralt’s nose. Shaking his head, remembering the sweet scent that he’d often smelled around Emhyr, Geralt said, “Only if I know that’s what I’m smelling. If you’ve never smelt say...cinnamon before, and then someone asks you to identify cinnamon amongst a myriad of other scents you won’t be able to do it.” 

“It is not the same for every person?”

“No, there are similarities of course but individual scents depend on many things.” 

“Interesting,” he frowned. Geralt could see the chess pieces moving in his head, a play had been made that Emhyr hadn’t expected and he was changing tack, considering different moves that would lead towards his end goal. Which was apparently finding out if Geralt wanted to enter a relationship with him, which was not a sentence Geralt thought would ever pass through his mind. 

He could have waited for Emhyr to decide what move he wanted to make but Emhyr had apparently been making all of the moves, taking all of the risks while Geralt fumbled blindly along, oblivious to what was going on around him. It was time to change that. 

“What do you want from me?” he asked, turning his head to look Emhyr in the eye. 

Emhyr stared back, assessing, Geralt didn’t know what he was looking for, but whatever it was he must have found it because he began to speak, voice terribly vulnerable, “I want a companion who knows and understands me as a man, rather than as an Emperor. But I also want someone who will understand that my first duty is to the Empire, that I serve the people, not the other way around and that as my lover, the essence of their duty is me. And I want a lover who will hold me after I have a nightmare, who will be gentle with me, and patient and who will also sometimes let the dogs share our bed.” They both chuckled at that, Emhyr albeit a tad wetly, the alcohol on his breath likely responsible for the freeness of his emotions, but Geralt wouldn’t hold it against him, his own heart aching. 

“In return,” Emhyr continued, “I will be patient and understanding and honest. I will not expect anything that I would not do myself and I will love you until my last breath.”

“That’s quite the commitment,” Gerat said, a little breathless.

“I find myself helplessly in love with you anyway. Call me selfish but I’d rather spend my life with the object of my ardour and affection by my side, if you would consent to such a thing?”

The dance was coming to a close, a final chord ringing out from the septet. Geralt stepped back and bowed, heart pounding. How could it be real? But it was real and it was far more wonderful than any idle daydream Geralt had ever entertained of Emhyr admitting any kind of feelings he held for him. 

Geralt was aware that they’d ended up under the chandelier, from which hung a bustle of mistletoe. He couldn’t kiss Emhyr on the lips, no matter how much he wanted too, not while they were in the company. However, the mistletoe gave him a reasonable excuse to move into Emhyr’s space and take his hand, to raise it up to his lips and press a sweet, tender kiss to his knuckles.

“Efa and Aerona can share our bed every night if you want,” he smiled, letting all of the affection he’d kept hidden away for years show on his face. “I’ll just be happy to call you mine. So, er, yeah, I consent, wholeheartedly.”

Emhyr’s eyes closed for a moment, his shoulders sagging slightly in a small showing of relief. When he opened them again, they were shining with happiness. He was about to speak when Alys appeared at their side, blushing crimson as she tentatively asked Geralt for a dance. 

“We shall continue this conversation later,” Emhyr promised, before striding away to join Ieuen at the bar. Geralt watched him go, mind absolutely reeling but enjoying the utter elation that filled his body from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

-oOo-

The guests were all sleeping soundly, the Yule Log still continued to burn outside, and it was easy to creep down the corridor to Emhyr’s room. Moving silently down the corridor in his dressing gown and slippers, wanting to continue the conversation they’d started in the ballroom. Geralt hadn’t known what to expect so when Emhyr apologetically suggested they go down to the kitchen, Geralt went willingly, the dogs trotting either side of them.

“I know we have already somewhat agreed to commit to one another,” Emhyr said as he closed the door behind them, “but I wouldn’t like to jump into certain aspects of what we are about to embark on too quickly, so thought this may be safer territory to continue our discussion.” 

Geralt lit the sconces around the room, although he didn’t need to see Emhyr to know that he was nervous. Efa and Aerona settled in their bed and Emhyr sat down at the head of the kitchen table while Geralt set about making them tea. “What would you like to discuss?” he asked, setting a kettle full of water on top of the Aga. 

“If you come to Nilfgaard-”

“Which I will,” Geralt interrupted, making Emhyr huff with amusement. It wasn’t everyday anyone had the audacity to interrupt him.

“I’m sure you will already be aware but there will be much gossip, you’ll have to be very careful of who you talk too and what you say to them. It can be quite suffocating at times so if you ever do need a break, temporary or...permanent, then please do not be afraid to tell me.”

“Alright,” Geralt agreed, although he didn’t think he’d ever want a permanent break from Emhyr. He crossed behind Emhyr to collect cups for them and dropped a kiss to the top of his head as he passed, just because he could, gratified by the way Emhyr’s heart skipped a beat when he did so. 

“Would you like any formal duties to keep you busy during the day?” 

“Maybe something with the palace horses,” Geralt suggested, measuring out the correct amount of mint for their tea. 

“Will you take a Chamberlain?”

That one gave him pause. He would rather not, so used to just doing everything by and for himself but permanent residential life in the Grand Palace of Nilfgaard was an unknown entity. There were rules and protocols that had to be adhered to absolutely, which wasn’t something Geralt could do by himself and it would put him at risk of embarrassing Emhyr, something he never wanted to do. 

“Yes,” he conceded, pouring the heated water into their cups.

“Thank you,” Emhyr sighed. 

Geralt placed the cups down on the table and then took the seat on Emhyr’s right, turning it so he could easily look at him. Even in a dressing gown and pajamas, Emhyr cut a fine figure, handsome, regal and everything Geralt wanted. They drank their tea in silence, and Geralt appreciated the strength of Emhyr’s brow, the curved line of his nose, the sharpness of his high cheekbones and the stubble that was beginning to darken his jaw. He reveled in finally having permission to look by looking. For a while he did nothing but stare at Emhyr’s lips, the wonderful curve of them, they looked so soft, and Geralt spent a moment wondering what they’d feel like before remembering he was allowed to find out. 

“Come here, please,” Geralt said, holding out his arms and gesturing Emhyr towards him. With an inquisitive quirk of his eyebrows, Emhyr did as asked, and allowed Geralt to pull him down so he was sitting sideways across Geralt’s lap. Wrapping one arm around Emhyr’s waist to steady him, Geralt raised the other and traced the pad of his thumb gently over Emhyr’s bottom lip. Their position meant that Emhyr was gazing down at Geralt, something impossibly tender in his expression that Geralt had never seen before. It appeared he hadn’t been the only one hiding things. The sweet scent of Emhyr’s attraction filled the air around him, previously unidentifiable, it had become something Geralt would never forget.

“I love you too, you know,” he said. Emhyr’s breath hitched at the declaration, and unable to hold himself back any longer, Geralt asked, “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Emhyr nodded, with great enthusiasm.

Slipping his hand into Emhyr’s hair, cupping the back of his head, Geralt drew him down and kissed him. 

Emhyr’s lips were just as soft as he thought they’d be. As they moved together, Emhyr pressed his hands into Geralt’s chest and practically quivered against him. He wondered idly how long it had been since Emhyr had been with another person but cast the thought away, wanting to stay in the present and deciding ultimately it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were finally able to be together, finally able to love each the way they’d clearly both wanted to for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it and it made you smile! I have a few other Geralt/Emhyr fics so if you liked this one please check them out :D <3
> 
> Parts of this were definitely inspired by The Crown, if you've seen it I'm sure they'll have been quite obvious, lol.
> 
> [My Tumblr!](https://lutes-and-dandelions.tumblr.com/)


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